


revolving doors and nights

by coricomile (orphan_account)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Sibling Incest, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-22 22:52:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/615271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two years apart feels like centuries sometimes. Stiles is the smart one, but Scott is the one that stays up late at night and listens for the sirens of their father’s car. Stiles is the one that holds their respective medications, but Scott is the one that jumps in front of any fists that come their way. They’re unhealthy, clutching at their bloodlines because they don’t have anything else to hang on to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	revolving doors and nights

They've had bunk beds for most of their lives. Scott on top, Stiles on the bottom, their heartbeats like white noise in the dark silence of their room. When they were younger, when the nights stretched endless outside their bedroom window, Scott would crawl down into Stiles' bunk, curl up with him and tell him stories to keep both of their minds occupied.

Stiles used to get nightmares, would shake under his sheets until the headboard rattled against the wall. He still has them sometimes. Wakes up with shuddery, dark gasps that make Scott cringe. They’re the same, he says, always the same, even though he can’t remember them in the morning.

"Relax," Scott says from his own bed, eyes closed against the sun slipping in through the curtains. "Relax." And when the shakes come back, he still crumbles himself into Stiles' bed and wraps him up and tells him stories until he falls asleep again. 

Two years apart feels like centuries sometimes. Stiles is the smart one, but Scott is the one that stays up late at night and listens for the sirens of their father’s car. Stiles is the one that holds their respective medications, but Scott is the one that jumps in front of any fists that come their way. They’re unhealthy, clutching at their bloodlines because they don’t have anything else to hang on to. 

Maybe they should get Stiles to a doctor. Maybe they should get Scott a set of friends that aren’t his little brother, and maybe they should ask for separate rooms. There’s too many variables. Scott isn’t the smart one.

Scott is sixteen the first time he climbs into Stiles' bed when he isn't having a nightmare. It had been an honest mistake, a misunderstanding of heavy breathing and shuddery gasps, but Stiles doesn’t kick him out and Scott doesn't go. Instead they both lay very still, and Scott tells him a story about the girl in Algebra 1 that had let him get to second base.

With his eyes closed, Scott can almost feel Lacy’s hands on his skin, small and soft and cool. It was under the bleachers at a lacrosse game, rushed and fumbling. Lacy was a warm patch in the chilly winter air, her jacket stiff under his frozen fingers. She’d giggled when he slipped his hand up under her shirt and, even though his heart had been racing, Scott had memorized every curve and crook of her silky bra.

Scott can hear the questions building up under Stiles’ tongue, one for every other heartbeat, but, for once, Stiles keeps them locked up behind his teeth. 

It changes them. Scott hesitates at the bathroom door in the morning, one hand on the frame, the other groping at a shirt from the laundry basket on top of their dresser. He's never been conscious of Stiles as anything but Stiles. Never thought about Stiles having his own under-the-bleachers adventures. He remembers fourteen clearly, from the growing pains to the awkward dreams and the unease under his skin. Somehow, it had never occurred to him that Stiles would have that phase, too.

Stiles isn't any less free with his affection. He still rubs his wet head against Scott's shirt until it's dripping, still leans over him at breakfast to take the last of the sausage, elbow digging into Scott's thigh. He laughs just as loud as always, like he doesn't know that Scott can't stop looking at him. Analyzing him.

Now that he’s looking, Scott can see the way Stiles’ baby fat is dropping off and leaving lean, thin places behind. He can see the places where Stiles is growing out of his clothes slowly but surely, bare patches of skin showing whenever he moves. These things that had never mattered before are all he can think about now. Scott does his best to not notice. 

His best, it seems, is not really good enough.

At seventeen, Scott shows Stiles a quick trick with his pillow. Quieter, he'd said as he climbed into his bunk. Less obvious. Even so, he'd strained to hear Stiles' little whimpers, ear pressed to his mattress, hand stuffed into his shorts. The guilt that curls up into his gut is overshadowed by the heat balled up at the base of his spine. He can feel the shivers of the bed, timed up with Stiles' desperate thrusts against his sheets. Here, this is where things go sideways. This is where they skip into messy territory.

Stiles kisses him first. Presses shaky lips against his, eyes scrunched up and fists balled up at his sides. Scott feels it like a punch to his head. His little brother, sweet and smart and snarky, shoved up against him in his stupid bunk. It's sloppy and rough. Hurried, like Stiles is ready to bolt.

"Stop," Scott says, lips moving against Stiles'. It sounds weak, even to himself. He wraps his fingers around Stiles' shoulders, feels warm skin and solid muscle under the worn, soft t-shirt that had once been his. "Stiles, please."

"Make me," Stiles replies. He slides one hand up Scott's stomach, hot and rough. "Come on." He grins, mouth quirking up. "Wanna make out a little?"

Scott closes his eyes. He can feel Stiles' warmth creeping into his skin, burning a hole into him. Right through him, into the sheets they've had for years. His dick is hard in his boxers, aching between his thighs. He wants it so fucking bad.

"I'm not kidding," Scott says, pushing Stiles away gently. He can feel Stiles' hard on against his stomach, hot through his underwear.

"If you don't, I'll find someone else who will," Stiles says, low and dark. He curls his fingers into the waistband of Scott's boxers, tugging. He laughs, sitting up until his shoulders are touching the ceiling. "Think I could talk Mr. Harris into it?"

"Stop." Scott kicks him. "Get down and jerk off, asshole. You're not going to blackmail me into sleeping with you." Stiles slumps on top of him, huffing. He's still got a hold on Scott's boxers, fingers _this close_ to Scott's dick.

"Why are you such a jackass?" Stiles asks. His breath blows hot over Scott's throat. He doesn't get down, but he doesn't make another move to do anything.

“Stiles, you’re fifteen, and I’m your brother,” Scott says, slow and shaky. He tries to ignore the way Stiles is squirming on his thighs, but his skin feels like it’s vibrating. There’s a moment where nothing happens, where Scott thinks Stiles is going to leave him alone, but then Stiles is moving again.

“So?” He asks. Then he’s kissing Scott again, and Scott, like always, lets him do whatever he wants.

\---

Stiles still has nightmares sometimes. Drawn out night terrors that leave him shaking under the sheets. He mumbles about wolves and beasts and blood. Scott still climbs down from his top bunk- college bunk this time, fitted with Panthers sheets and a little dirtier than his mother ever let them get- and curls up around him. They don’t fit quite as well as they used to. Stiles is still a skinny thing, but he’s as tall as Scott now, and this bed seems smaller than the ones at home.

Sometimes, Stiles will go back to sleep easily. Usually, he’ll stay up long enough for a sleepy make out. And Scott will think about the things that could go wrong, and he’ll remember Stiles as a chubby twelve year old that shadowed him everywhere, and then he’ll just... let it go.

“Stop thinking,” Stiles grumbles. He rubs his thin, downy stubble against Scott’s chest, buzzcut hair tickling against Scott’s nose. And like he always does, Scott listens.


End file.
